Flames, Smoke, Disaster
by Dojh167
Summary: It is Dean and Seamus' anniversary and things do not go as planned. That's kind of their thing.


_A/N: Originally posted on HPFF on 11/19/15 as a gift for TreacleTart301_

* * *

"Happy Anniversary!" Dean cheers gleefully as he throws open the door to his flat.

The flowers in his hand fall to the floor as Dean freezes in horror at the sight before him. Or, more accurately, the lack of sight. Thick smoke rushes at him through the open door, everything beyond he coat rack obscured from view.

He holds his breath, battling off the smoke at repeating thoughts he has to fight to believe; "The war is over. The war is over. Nobody in my home is dead."

Finally, unable to hold his breath a moment longer, Dean gasps for air and pulls out his wand in a moment of delayed clarity.

"Averro."

The smoke gradually clears away, twisting within itself until Dean can see through to the kitchen counter on the far end of the flat.

Even as he continues to repeat "nobody in my home is dead," his eyes fall on the pathetic sight of a figure on the tile floor, bent over in anguish.

"Seamus!" Dean cries out, rushing forward and to kneel down beside his boyfriend on the floor. "What is it? What's happened?"

"I killed it," Seamus whispers, his hoarse voice echoing the shock in his eyes.

"What? Killed what?" Dean looks frantically around, his mind running at a million miles an hour, already forming escape routes. They could run. They could cover it up. Whatever poor darling Seamus had done, they could get through it.

"The pie," Seamus whimpers, jabbing his elbow towards a mushy lump a few feet away which Dean hadn't registered as anything resembling food.

Relief washes over Dean's tense body. "Oh thank bloody goodness." He wraps his hand around the back of Seamus' head, holding their foreheads together in earnest tenderness. They maintain their intimate position, exchanging breaths with each other, laced with the staleness of the recently cleared air.

"What did you do?" Dean finally asks, having at last convinced his body that there was no true threat.

"I tried to make you treacle tart," Seams confesses with a dejected pout. "I thought it would be boyfriendy. You know, anniversary and all."

Dean can't help but smile at his precious lover. "You know there are spells for that," he offers. "Much less messy than the muggle way."

"I know!" Seamus moans in distress. "I followed the cooking spell to the letter, and still – flames, smoke, disaster…"

"Wait," Dean cuts him off, "You used a cooking spell? To bake? You know those are totally different things…"

Seamus looks up at him, his eyes narrowed with doubt.

"Look, we can order out," Dean suggests in an upbeat tone. "We'll eat in bed. No more magic, no more clothes…"

"But," Seamus mumbles feebly, "It was supposed to be a thing. You know, the treacle was our sweetness, the crust was our stability… I like really thought about it."

Dean's initial impulse to laugh is cut off by the sincerity of his distressed partner.

"Well, look," he says, leaning over the heap of tart, somehow simultaneously mushy and burnt. "It's still kind of us…"

Seamus gives him a sharp look. "You kidding? What, are we breaking up now?"

"No, no," Dean rushes on. "The charred edges… well, they're the hard times we've been through. And that funny shape… Well, we've never fit other people's expectations, have we? And I think," he pauses to dip a brave finger into the tart and bring it to his lips, "Yup, it's still got that sweetness."

Now Seamus is the one caught between laughter and gratification. Dean takes advantage of the moment and dips another finger into the pie, this time lifting up to Seamus' lips, which obligingly wrap themselves around the gooey finger. Seamus swallows, his face contorting in distaste.

"Don't go scrunching your face up at our metaphor tart!" Dean warns.

This time Seamus really does laugh, and Dean can't resist kissing that whiney, scrunched face. They are back in sync at last, their faces mirroring each other in the kisses of their lips and the gleaming of their eyes.

As they pull apart, neither one makes any move to get up. They sit there together, leaning against each other in casual embrace as they quietly regard their metaphor tart.

"I made the top all latticey," Seamus mentions. "Well, I tried – It doesn't really show now."

"I like it better this way," Dean assures him. "It's much more natural. Organic. See that curve there? It's like the neck of a swan."

Seamus twists his neck to consider the specified blob of pastry dough. "Or the hook of a pirate."

The pair laugh together at their own fantastic contradictions.

"Oi! What did you get me?" Seamus suddenly demands, his typical boisterous form coming back in waves.

"Oh, I brought flowers," Dean offers, looking over his shoulder to where the flowers fell by the door, now a disjointed heap of petals and stems. "I think I might have killed them too."


End file.
